The Mask of Longing
She often expressed her love through cooking. Every Sunday she fixed favorite dishes for family and friends she expected to visit. There were no invitations, no RSVPs, no formality. People wandered in and out of her house Sunday afternoon and into the evening. They fixed a plate of food from the bowls and platters of food kept warm in the oven, played a game of cards, and chatted about the week past and the coming week. She’d lay her cards down to greet the newest visitors, and after much protest, return to the game all the while informing the newcomer his or her favorite dish was in the oven or in the refrigerator in the case of things like cucumbers in vinegar. Grandma watched it all with a smile.
As a teenager, I often went to her house on Sunday mornings to help cook. Looking back I realize she rarely let me actually help. We talked while she bustled around the kitchen letting me help just enough to make it true when she later told everyone I’d helped. I drank a cup of hot tea, washed a few dishes, and occasionally stirred something or cut something up. Mostly, though, I answered questions about school, friends, home, and my dreams for life. Grandma always listened and encouraged. She never lectured or pushed her thoughts on me though she was always honest with me.
She accepted people. She wasn’t judgmental. She was genuinely interested in people but not in a gossipy way. She knew more than she was given credit for and would tell me to always try to understand other people’s points of view. When I talked about other people, she would say things like “I’m sure she had her reasons.” or “We don’t know the whole story.”
Grandma’s house was always one of welcome, of acceptance, and conversation. It wasn’t a place you went for silence. It was a place you went to socialize and to be surrounded by noisy interaction, laughter, and debate.
People stopped by on their way to somewhere else every day. Often, they would pop in to say hi or see if Grandma needed anything. Grandma didn’t drive, but she never seemed to mind. She never lacked for company or something to do.
Grandma wasn’t perfect, and she never claimed to be. She smoked cigarettes, and I hated that. Sometimes people took advantage of her desire to see others happy. As for those favorites, once you said you liked something it was your favorite for all eternity! You needed to be prepared to eat it every Sunday when she pointed out she’d made your “favorite” with a look of joy that said clearly “I was paying attention because you matter.”
Once in college, I wanted to express my affection for my boyfriend (now husband) by making him a pumpkin pie (his favorite) from scratch. I called Grandma and she talked me through making the pie starting with a raw pumpkin. Grandma was calm and patient with me if a bit amused as I called her back several times in the process because I wasn’t sure what the pumpkin should be doing as it cooked. I always cooked in college for my friends because that’s what I learned from Grandma. You cook for those you care about.
The tradition continues today. My husband and I often cook for people as an expression of love, welcome, and acceptance. We even try to remember favorites like my family’s love of my husband’s makloubeh, a Middle Eastern chicken and rice dish, and my tabouli.
There are many days since her death that I long for another Sunday morning with Grandma. For those few hours, I had her undivided attention even though she was cooking for all the family and several friends. She never doubted they would stop by. And, she was rarely disappointed. I long for those few moments with her when I felt like I was special – like I could do anything just because she believed in me. A bowl of macaroni and tomatoes or a slice of chocolate cake will never fill the void that causes the craving for time with her. The food actually often tends to intensify the longing.
Looking beyond the superficial food cravings to find the meaning behind them helped me to see that Grandma’s influence still lives in me today. I’m grateful for Grandma’s influence and for the time I had with her.
While the world may not know it, everyone who ever knew my Grandma Stamm knows it was a better world because she was a part of it. Their lives were better because they knew her. I miss her every day, and I don’t expect that to change any time soon.
In our world, we spend so much of our time sharing good times over food that it’s no wonder food becomes so intertwined with our memories and our longings. Grandma’s Sunday dinners exemplify the connection. I challenge everyone to stop and think about why they’re craving a food – any food – the next time the craving hits. It may just turn out that something else can fill that void. Or sadly, in some cases, maybe nothing can.
Note: I recently came across this essay I wrote several years ago. It reminded me of how grief comes in waves and lingers for years even though it changes and becomes less painful in some ways over time. On May 29th, it'll be twenty years since Grandma Stamm died and every word of this essay is still applicable. That little pang is there combined with the joy of having shared those moments with a loved one. I decided to do a light edit and share the essay for anyone who might find comfort in reading it.
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